


The Fall and What Comes After

by lovetincture



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 22:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17712968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Sherlock has been back for months, and things have been good. Mostly. He and John still haven't addressed the elephant in the room, but they find a lot of ways to not talk about it.Or, four times Sherlock and John didn’t talk about Sherlock's swan dive from the roof of Bart's, and one time they did.





	The Fall and What Comes After

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for [Season of Kink](https://seasonofkink.dreamwidth.org/). I was randomly assigned the prompts "rough sex, roleplay, and animal play".

**1.**

John punches him in the face.

That’s the first thing that happens when Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead. He interrupts a proposal. (And of course he knew it was a proposal. In an upscale restaurant, John, _really_? How trite. How not at all like him, playing pretend at the things common people do.)

He interrupts a proposal, plays a game involving a flimsy disguise and a poor French accent, and gets punched in the face for his trouble. In retrospect, the moustache may have been in questionable taste, but still.

He’s punched in not one but three establishments, the proposal is canceled, and Sherlock goes home with a bloody nose, alone. That had gone not at all how he envisioned it, and Sherlock is licking his metaphorical wounds while tending to his _physical_ wounds in the bathroom, when he hears a knock at the door.

It’s John. John standing there wearing bruised knuckles and a look of grim determination.

What happens next, well, it’s pretty much exactly what Sherlock envisioned. John grabs him by the collar and drags him forward for a bruising, punishing kiss. Sherlock’s lip is split from the blow in the kebab shop, and it breaks open anew under the onslaught. Their kiss is red-tinted and tastes of copper, and when John pulls away panting, there’s a smear of blood on his chin.

Sherlock reaches out and brushes it away with a thumb. The gesture is unhurried. He can feel the slow drag of stubble against the pad of his thumb, and John watches as Sherlock brings his bloodied finger to his mouth and licks it clean. Something hungry stirs in his eyes, and then he’s on Sherlock again, shoving the hand aside to replace it with his mouth. Sherlock cleans the rest of the blood off John’s lips with his tongue, then bloodies him anew.

They’re shedding clothes at a frantic pace, ripping them off and scattering them on the floor. Sherlock just barely retains the presence of mind to shut the door amid the clamor in his head shouting for _skin_ and _John_ and _more_.

This is just another kind of fight. It’s red of tooth and claw, drenched in pain and anger, soaked in the loneliness of the last two years. John pauses when he uncovers the ruined skin of Sherlock’s back. His touch goes tender for a moment, skimming feather-light over the scars, and it’s the wrong thing to do. Sherlock winces, more at ease with the pain than the pity.

John seems to understand. He turns him around and shoves Sherlock onto his back, pressing the evidence of his long absence into the carpet. The rug burn feels like a benediction. Then there’s lube, and gentleness, and a hot, insistent intrusion.

John drives into him hard, and the sun has gone down. They’re bathed in fiery orange in the dying light of the afternoon, and the house is silent except for the slap of skin on skin. Sherlock cries out, and John muffles his voice with a hand, another hand curled around his throat. His vision goes fuzzy around the edges as John’s hand pushes into his carotid on every thrust. Speckles dance in front of his eyes.

John comes with a muffled yell into his shoulder, and Sherlock hisses as he feels John bite down.

John closes his eyes and stays, after. He goes still, hovering above Sherlock and still inside him.

He doesn’t move, and so Sherlock doesn’t either.

It’s a long while, long after they’ve caught their breath and their sweat has dried, long after Sherlock has started to surreptitiously wriggle at the uncomfortable stickiness between his legs, that John slowly, slowly lays down. He collapses onto Sherlock, face turned away so Sherlock can’t see, but his shoulders shudder, and his cheeks are wet where they’re pressed against Sherlock’s skin.

He brings his arms up to curl protectively around John, and he presses a kiss into the top of his hair.

They don’t talk about it, but John shows up with two suitcases the next day, and Sherlock lets him in.

 

**2.**

After that, things were fine. It was all fine, as John would say. And if they didn’t talk about it, well, that was just their way.

Except it wasn’t fine in all ways, just some ways. There was anger there, lurking around the edges of their interactions, and sometimes it came out in a careless word here, a gesture there. Sherlock was adept enough to read John’s body language, but not enough to be able to stymie the resentment behind it. He didn’t know what to say or do to fix it.

Sometimes he got it right— bringing John tea earned him a soft smile that seemed to almost rewind the clock two years. Other times he got it very, very wrong, and John didn’t speak to him for days.

Baker Street had become an invisible minefield, and Sherlock was playing a game whose rules he didn’t know.

He stayed out late one night, examining a body Molly had saved for him: an elderly woman. Died of natural causes but hadn’t been discovered for a week, and by then her cats had gotten to her.

“Thought you’d like to see this,” Molly said, shooting him one of those smiles she had, the ones that seemed ready to skitter off her face at any moment.

“Quite right,” Sherlock said. And then, because he was _trying_ , he said, “Thank you.”

Molly’s brows knit together for a moment. “You’re welcome,” she said at last.

She left him alone with the body, which really was very fascinating— well done, Molly. The indentations left by the feline bite marks held a wealth of information, and Sherlock was soon wholly consumed by his examination. By the time he looked up, the sun was gone and so was Molly.

He frowned. It took him another half hour to put away the body himself, and longer still to hail a cab. The cab service really had degraded in London in his absence; he might have to speak to Mycroft about that.

By the time he got home, most of the lights in the surrounding flats had gone out, and the light upstairs at Baker Street was dimmed as well. Sherlock climbed the stairs, avoiding the one that squeaked. He hung his coat, peeled off his clothes, and climbed into bed beside John.

Anyone else might have thought John was sleeping. He was lying perfectly still, curled away from the door, facing the wall. Even in the dark, Sherlock could feel the tension radiating from his body. He reached out and put a hand on John’s shoulder.

“ _Don’t._ ” John said, voice ragged and harsh.

Sherlock jerked his hand back. He waited. Waited so long that his eyes adjusted to the darkness, so he could see as well as hear John’s chest rise and fall with his too-quick breaths.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” John asked at last.

Sherlock blinked in the dark. “No,” he said honestly.

John laughed, and it was a pained sound. “Of course you don’t.”

Sherlock hesitated. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock laid awake staring at the ceiling until John’s breathing evened out in sleep. He got up and played the violin until morning.

 

**3.**

It happened at a crime scene. Donovan was there sneering, as usual. Her barbs had lost most of their edge since Sherlock had returned from the dead, but she still made them. For old times’ sake, perhaps. She was the kind of woman who found comfort in routine. It was fine. Sherlock hardly noticed anymore, not that he’d ever minded the scorn of fools— except today, for whatever reason (No, Sherlock knew the reason. Deep shadows under her eyes, fingernails bitten to the quick, the way she kept patting her pocket to ensure her phone was still there—illness in the family, likely fatal), she decided to take her ire out on John.

“Oh look, here comes the freak and his pet. Wonder what tricks they’ll do today.” She’d rolled her eyes, and Lestrade had said a few hushed words to her, a hand on her shoulder. She disappeared, presumably to get some coffee and take a walk, and that had been the end of that.

The crime scene had been delightful, nearly an 8, and Sherlock was still buzzing with the heady thrill of it by the time they returned to the flat. He was thinking of suggesting Thai food—John always liked it when he ate, and he said as much: “John, fetch some Thai food for us. I’m thinking Marie’s Cafe?”

“I’m not your dog,” John said with some heat. “You can’t just leave whenever you feel like it and expect that I’ll follow you.”

Sherlock was taken aback. He hadn’t realized John was still thinking about that exchange. It had been nothing more than a blip on the radar, a nonevent. He frowned. “That bothered you? But it’s _Donovan_ . She’s wrong nearly as often as Anderson.” And then Sherlock _laughed_ , and it was entirely the wrong thing to do.

John went white-lipped and marched himself up to bed (his bedroom, the one they hardly used anymore) and didn’t talk to Sherlock for the rest of the night.

In retrospect, Sherlock considered that his phrasing could have used some work. “Why did I say _fetch_?” He asked the skull on the mantelpiece. The skull grinned back and offered no answers.

Sherlock continued thinking about it, long after the incident had passed. John was back to his usual self, trying to find his belongings once again (boring).

“Hey Sherlock, have you seen my laptop? I swore I left it on the coffee table, but I—” He swallowed the tail end of that thought as he looked up and saw Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, stark naked except—

Sherlock knew the exact moment John saw it, eyes zeroing in on the collar around his neck. It was sleek black leather, loose enough so as not to cut off air or blood flow, but not loose enough for comfort.

“Sherlock?” he asked, and that tone of voice wasn’t the one that meant worried or angry. He sounded confused, but confused Sherlock could work with. “What’s all this then?”

Sherlock licked his lips, suddenly nervous. “What if—” he trailed off, losing his nerve. He was being absurd, why was he acting like a schoolboy with a crush? This was _John_ . His John. He cleared his throat, started again. “What if I was _your_ dog?”

There was silence for long moments.

“Oh, you nutter,” John said at last, and there was affection in his voice. He crossed the room in a few long strides and examined the collar, sliding his fingers under it to test it. Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed at the sudden tightness around his throat, the feeling of contact. John tipped his head to the side to get a better look at it, and Sherlock lifted his chin, obliging.

“Very nice,” John said finally. Sherlock felt his cheeks warm at the praise. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“What if I want to?” Sherlock asked low and throaty. His cock had been soft when John walked into the room, but now it was standing at attention, taking in the current proceedings with clear interest.

John raised an eyebrow. “Then sit,” he said.

“I am sitting.”

Both eyebrows went up this time. John stood there, waiting, and Sherlock caught his meaning after a moment’s pause. He sank to the floor as gracefully as he was able and sat back on his haunches, placing his hands on either side of his knees and looking up expectantly.

“Good dog,” John said. “Speak,” he tried.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and barked, feeling incredibly foolish. The human larynx wasn’t designed to make that sound, and anyway, canine communication was done in large part through body language, so a thorough study would have to be done to achieve true verisimilitude; and that was leaving aside the role of pheromones and other scent markers entirely. Canid psychology was vastly different to that of hominids—and just like that, Sherlock had lost the eroticism of the moment.

He saw the change in mood register with John and tried rolling onto his back to distract him, to reel him back into the game, presenting his belly as a dog might. Too late.

“Are you into this?” John asked, frowning.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said too quickly.

John sat next to Sherlock on the floor so he could fix the detective with a critical eye. “That’s not what I asked.”

Sherlock dodged the question. “I want you to feel fine. About this,” He frowned, realized that was unclear in present circumstances. “About us.”

John sighed and pulled Sherlock’s head into his lap. He twisted the collar around so he could unbuckle it, and he traced the imprint it left on Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock shivered at the sensation.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” John said, and he sounded tired.

“You liked it,” Sherlock pointed out.

He shrugged. “It’s fun to try new things.”

“Mm.” Sherlock’s eyes slipped shut as John began to card his fingers through his curls. “Maybe we can try it again sometime.” John was quiet for so long that Sherlock opened his eyes.

“I don’t want either of us to be the other’s dog,” John said at last.

Sherlock looked up at him, frowning. “Well of course we’re not. I’m Sherlock, and you’re John. We’re the consulting detective and his blogger.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock hesitated, wanting to ask but already sure he knew what the answer would be.

John read his mind instead. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

So they didn’t.

 

**4.**

Sherlock frowned. “Can one of us just… I don’t know,” He waved his hand vaguely. “ _Pretend_ to be a therapist?”

Now it was John’s turn to frown, the expression deepening the lines already creasing his worn face. “No, because that defeats the purpose, Sherlock.”

“I thought you said the purpose was for us to talk about our _feelings_ . You suggested it, ergo you want to talk about your feelings. Surely all that’s needed for that is the two of us, although since you insist on a therapist, we now need a third party. Why can’t I serve as our _couple’s counselor_ ?” Sherlock spat out the phrase as though it offended him, making a face as the words _couple’s counselor_ left his mouth.

“Because— how can you—” John shook his head. “I can’t believe you. You know what? Okay, fine. We’ll try it your way.”

John may have thought his suggestion was in jest, but Sherlock took his role in this very seriously. He was not at all joking when he’d suggested that he could facilitate a conversation between John and himself. _Idiots_ were therapists. (And while John might balk at the word, yes it _was_ the right term; he’d _met_ Ella, thank you.) Surely if idiots could do it and gain satisfactory results, someone such as himself could do a far superior job. There was no need to hire a counselor just to listen to them air their grievances toward one another— John’s grievances, he mentally amended. He had no problems whatsoever with John. John who was the reason he was undergoing this preposterous task.

So Sherlock purchased a stack of books relevant to the subject matter: _Clinical Casebook of Couple Therapy_ , _The High Conflict Couple_ , _I Love You But I Don’t Trust You_ , and even a book titled _Nonviolent Communication_ , and set to devouring them right away. It took two days (two days during which John rolled his eyes every time he saw Sherlock at it, and during which he occasionally grabbed the book away to make Sherlock eat or sleep). By the end of it, Sherlock was fairly certain he knew everything necessary to properly facilitate a conversation between himself and John.

He considered. Perhaps the setting itself was important. People often felt off-balance in unfamiliar spaces, more willing to divulge their secrets when they weren’t surrounded by the familiar. It could be that the limitations of Baker Street itself would make John feel as though he had to be on guard emotionally, as it were.

Well, he could fix that.

Sherlock waited until John was away, doing a shift for the clinic (although why John still took it upon himself to do such menial labor was beyond him. It wasn’t as though they needed the money). Still, Sherlock couldn’t deny that it was _useful_ to occasionally have John out of the house at regularly scheduled intervals. It left him time to conduct the kinds of experiments he couldn’t do when John was around (“Too dangerous, Sherlock!” “Oh my god, _no_ . _No_ , you are not bringing a rabid possum into this house, Sherlock Holmes.”) Sherlock frowned at the memory. The possum hadn’t been rabid. (Probably.) It was likely just disoriented from the chemical cocktail Sherlock had fed it to facilitate capture. John was being unreasonable.

John’s absence also gave him the opportunity to rearrange all the furniture into a perfect facsimile of a therapist’s office. He’d even managed to source some appropriately bland wall art and a modern art sculpture that was beyond banal. After a moment’s thought, he donned a disguise as well, just a slight one. He combed his hair back and applied a pomade to slick it down, found a pair of nonprescription eyeglasses, and pulled on a sweater that looked like something John might wear, if John had better taste—Merino wool, cranberry-colored, well-fitted.

John came home to Sherlock sitting in one of the armchairs, notebook and pen at the ready.

“What the—?” Jon managed. He was still standing at the door, eyebrows knit together and mouth hanging open.

“Ah, John.” Sherlock said, favoring John with one of his nonthreatening smiles. “You’re right on time. Please, take a seat.”

“What the bloody hell did you do to the living room, Sherlock?”

“Doctor Holmes, please,” Sherlock said with another smile.

“You’re not a doctor,” John pointed out, and Sherlock shrugged, breaking character just for a moment. He gestured to the armchair opposite him once more, and he could see John hesitating.

After another moment, John shook his head and sank into the seat. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?” He leaned forward, “Alright, _Doctor Holmes_ , what are we here to discuss?”

“You tell me, John,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his own chair. “This is a safe space. We can talk about whatever you’d like.” John’s eyebrows shot up. “But why don’t we talk about your relationship with Sherlock?”

“You’re good at this, you know. Frighteningly good at this.”

Sherlock felt a moment’s pleasure. Doing his homework had paid off, but he wasn’t finished yet.

“Relationship’s fine,” John continued. “No complaints. Well,” he considered. “I could do without the body parts in the flat, but we’ve talked about that, and he’s mostly stopped putting them on my side of the fridge.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to frown. “It was one time. The leg was too big to fit on ‘my side’ of the refrigerator, and it was wrapped.”

John waggled a finger. “That’s very unprofessional of you, Doctor Holmes. I thought this was a safe space where I could air my grievances.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. You were saying?”

“Just that sometimes, a man wants to be able to make a sandwich without finding there are unidentified _fluids_ pooling on the luncheon meat. You wrapped the leg, but it sure as hell wasn’t wrapped well.”

“Sherlock,” he murmured.

“What?” John asked.

“Sherlock wrapped the leg poorly. Allegedly.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, he did. And if he could just keep from doing that in the future, everything will be just fine, thanks.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be sure to pass that along. But John, are you sure there isn’t anything else you want to talk about? You’re the one who scheduled this meeting after all.”

John didn’t say anything. He just pushed himself up from the armchair with a groan and crossed the living room, stopping right in front of Sherlock. He braced his hands on the armrest of either side of Sherlock’s chair before leaning in. Close, too close. Not close enough. His eyes were filled with mischief, and there was a dangerous look in his eyes as he said, “I think we’ve done enough talking for today, don’t you, doctor?”

Sherlock shivered. John was so close he could smell the remains of the day on him, damp wool from the rain shower he’d gotten caught in on his way home, the light musk of sweat, and that scent that was above all else _John_.

John leaned closer, and Sherlock knew what he must be seeing: him, pupils dilated, cheeks starting to flush, the unconscious way he kept biting at his own lip.

John licked his lips and smiled. He looked like a predator. He looked like something Sherlock so badly wanted.

But oh, the game was delicious too. “What about your boyfriend?” Sherlock asked, and his own voice came out breathy and hushed.

“We won’t tell him,” John said, and he crashed their lips together.

It was good, and it was different. The glasses perched on the bridge of his nose got in the way, changed the angle of the kiss. John fisted his hands in Sherlock’s sweater and pulled him closer. Sherlock felt engulfed and surrounded, overwhelmed in the most delicious way. Then John pulled away all of a sudden with a final playful nip at Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock tried to chase his mouth for more contact, but John pushed him back against the chair. The sudden roughness made Sherlock’s pulse leap and his heart beat faster.

John gave him a wink before sinking to his knees on the floor. He licked his lips once more and reached for Sherlock’s fly. Sherlock gasped in a way that he didn’t have to feign and reached out to cover John’s hand with his own.

“Mr. Watson, I hardly think that’s appropriate,” he demurred.

“Fuck appropriate,” said John.

Sherlock bit his lip, playacting the part of the mild-mannered, sensitive therapist. Finally, he moved his hand away, brushing his fingers against John’s in the barest hint of a caress as he did. He replaced his hands on the armrests and leaned back, letting John take control. John, who was deftly working his trousers open and pulling his cock out.

Sherlock shivered as the cool air of the room hit his erection.

“Well look at that,” John said. “Already so hard for me. Were you thinking about this the whole time, doctor?” He gave Sherlock a squeeze as he spoke, and Sherlock squirmed in the chair, aching for more stimulation, more contact. “Were you sitting here listening to me talk about my boyfriend, thinking about your prick in my mouth?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped. “The whole time.” He reached out to run his thumb over John’s lips, eyes darkening as those lips opened and drew his finger in. John sucked lightly at his thumb, running his tongue around it and scraping lightly with his teeth, and Sherlock moaned.

“Think I ought to report you,” John said, letting Sherlock’s finger go with a last suck that ended with an obscene pop.

“Probably should,” Sherlock agreed. He gasped again as John squeezed once more. He started pumping Sherlock slowly, lazily, and Sherlock raised his hips in time to the motion, fucking into John’s hand.

And then John’s mouth was around Sherlock’s cock, swallowing it down to the base without the slightest hint of preamble. Sherlock's head fell back against the chair's backrest as John started to lazily bob his head up and down.

Sherlock wanted to touch him. Wasn't sure it was allowed. Could Doctor Holmes touch his patient, thread his fingers through John Watson's shaggy hair? Sherlock tensed his fingers in the weathered upholstery of the armrest as John did something with his tongue that had Sherlock crying out.

Sod the game.

Sherlock brought his hands to rest against John's head, tentatively at first. John moaned in approval, and that was all the encouragement Sherlock needed to tighten his fingers in John's hair and pull. He used his grip to set the pace, and there was something delightfully obscene about using John this way, fucking his mouth as he groaned around Sherlock's cock. John seemed to think so too because in the next moment, he was palming the front of his trousers and riding his own hand.

He hollowed out his cheeks and sucked, and Sherlock saw stars.

  


“Fuck,” Sherlock said, after. He was panting and trying to catch his breath, and John looked altogether pleased with himself.

“You’re a terrible therapist,” John said mildly.

“And you’re a wonderful patient,” Sherlock smirked.

John hit him with a throw pillow. “Git.”

 

**+1**

When they finally did talk about it, it wasn’t after a case, riding high on adrenaline. It wasn’t on the trip to France that had been planned and then forgotten as yet another serial killer took a special interest in Sherlock. It wasn’t on John’s birthday, and it wasn’t at Angelo’s. It wasn’t after Mrs. Hudson scolded Sherlock for being standoffish and John for being cold (“Oh, work it out, boys. Don’t let a little domestic spoil your happiness.”) It wasn’t even at a crime scene.

When they finally talked about it, it didn’t happen in any of the ways Sherlock thought it would.

It happened at home, on a Tuesday, on a quiet afternoon.

It happened while John was putting on the kettle, and Sherlock was checking his email.

It happened when he least expected it.

“I thought you were never coming back, you know.” John spoke from the kitchen, and Sherlock didn’t move for fear of disturbing the moment. He listened instead. John stopped, and Sherlock waited. “I thought you were dead, and I thought, ‘Well this is it. The man you loved is dead’—and yes, that’s about the time I realized I loved you, rotten luck, that—I thought, ‘The man you loved is dead, and you blew it, Watson.’ I thought it was _my fault_ .” His voice grew rough with the edge of unshed tears, remembered horrors. “I thought, if only I had been there. If only I had been _kind_ , if I’d not called you a machine. If, if, if.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I know that, don’t I?”

Sherlock stared at his laptop screen and didn’t see it. He closed his eyes and tried to hear John instead. He heard his breath, heard the clank of a spoon in the sink. Heard his footsteps as he walked out of the kitchen to set a tea cup on the table and another in front of Sherlock.

John sat in his chair at the kitchen table, adjacent to Sherlock, and Sherlock studied him out of the corner of his eye. John was staring resolutely into his mug, mouth set in a straight, hard line—the soldier, still.

John took a sip of his tea. “The thing is, I know that, but it doesn’t make it feel any better. You were _dead_ . I saw your blood pooled on the ground. I saw your head cracked open and your beautiful eyes sightless. And then you _left_. You stayed dead, and you left, and all that time, I—” John trailed off, shook his head. He laughed. “Listen to me. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I want you to do with all of this.”

Sherlock closed his laptop slowly and pushed it aside. “I’m sorry,” he said.

John sighed. “It’s fine. Ancient history, yeah?”

Sherlock studied John’s face, took in his tired eyes and furrowed brow, the lines that surrounded his lips like parenthesis. His heart clenched in his chest. How strange that a face so ordinary should be so dear.

“It’s not fine,” Sherlock murmured. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m— It couldn’t have been helped, but it was cruel, and I hurt you, and I’m so very sorry.”

John looked away, and Sherlock drank his tea. He didn’t feel any better.

“I love you,” John said quietly.

“I love you too,” Sherlock said.

He reached across the table and took John’s hand in his own. John’s palm was warm and calloused, and he tightened his fingers around Sherlock’s.

They finished their tea. John read the paper, and Sherlock returned to his emails. He typed one-handed replies and rubbed his fingers over the rough ridges of John’s knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> You can check out my [original writing here](https://hopezane.com) if you're interested.
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture) | [Tumblr](http://lovetincture.tumblr.com) | [Dreamwidth](http://lovetincture.dreamwidth.org)


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